


A Rather Handsome Potato

by LemonTart



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Crack, Drug Use, Hallucinations, John is a Potato, Other, Potatolock - Freeform, Ridiculousness, Sherlock is high, crackity crack, very different first meeting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-09
Updated: 2016-01-09
Packaged: 2018-05-12 16:39:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5672965
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LemonTart/pseuds/LemonTart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock has taken a seven percent solution (or stronger) of something. His new flatmate seems to be a potato.  </p><p>(Crackfic in honor of John signing "I'm glad you liked my potato")</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Rather Handsome Potato

“Ahem.”

Sherlock started from his sleep at the sound of a throat politely clearing. He looked around, confused, sweeping back the hair that had fallen around his face. He was on the sofa, the blue silk-lined case that held his syringe on the floor just beyond his reach.

Oh yes, he’d injected himself with a nice little solution to help him think. That was… well… possibly hours ago. Or minutes. He wasn't sure.

“Ahem.”

There it was again. Sherlock glanced all around, saw no one. What the devil?

“Down here.” The voice was quiet. Patient.

Sherlock looked down.

“Over here.”

Sherlock shifted his eyes to the right. How odd. There on the red carpet sat a lumpish brown potato.

He furrowed his brow. How had that gotten there?

“Pardon me, but might I have a moment of your time?” the potato asked pleasantly.

Sherlock frowned. This was very odd indeed.

“Sorry to disturb you,” the potato continued, “But I was told you were looking for a flatmate, and I was in the neighborhood, so I stopped by.”

Sherlock slowly rose to a sitting position. “You,” he said aloud, “are a talking potato.”

“How astute. Is that a problem?” Now the potato sounded a bit sarcastic.

“Nooooo,” Sherlock answered slowly. “How did you get here?”

“I’m not helpless. And surely you’re aware that every potato has eyes, are you not?” the potato snapped. It was quite a sassy vegetable.

“You have…” Sherlock pointed to his own upper lip, uncertain. “I swear you have a moustache.”

“It’s the fashion. Now, about the flat share. Can you tell me more about it?”

“Uh…” Sherlock tried to pull his thoughts together. “There’s a bedroom upstairs. Mrs. Hudson provides the meals. As for me, I play the violin sometimes. Smoke a pipe.”

“And inject drugs?” the potato asked pointedly.

“Only occasionally.” (Just how strong of a solution had he taken today??)

“As a medical doctor, I strongly advise against that habit. But seeing as the rooms are decent… I’ll take it.”

Sherlock blinked. “You’re a doctor?”

“Is that so hard to fathom? As I said, I’ll take the room.” The potato sat looking at Sherlock expectantly.

Sherlock stared back. “All right. You’ll have to let Mrs. Hudson know.”

“Fine.” The potato rolled across the carpet, inspecting the room some more.

Sherlock watched as it roamed about. The potato was a pleasing shape, oblong, solid, and relatively smooth. A rather handsome looking root vegetable, all in all. Perhaps it would make a fine flatmate.

“Do be careful of the fire,” Sherlock cautioned as it moved around. “Wouldn’t want you to get baked.”

“Please. I’ve seen more danger than you can imagine.”

“Oh, really? Escaped from the grocer, did you?”

“I served in Afghanistan, if you must know.”

Sherlock let out a bark of a laugh. He was truly losing his mind. “At what rank?”

“Captain. I was injured and invalided home.”

Sherlock peered closer. There was a distinct limp to the potato’s gait. Perhaps it was telling the truth. He changed the subject. “What shall I call you?’

The potato rolled back. “Dr. Watson. And you’re Mr. Sherlock Holmes. You’re supposed to be rather brilliant, but a bit… unorthodox and reckless.”

Sherlock pulled a face. “People are stupid. They make me impatient.”

“I quite understand,” the potato said evenly. “Well then, I’ll bring my things tomorrow, shall I?”

Sherlock paused, silenced for a moment as the potato briefly shimmered into the form of a rather attractive man nattily dressed in a dark brown suit. The image soon faded.

Sherlock shook his head to clear it. How bizarre. He then wondered what items a potato such as this might possess. “You don’t happen to still own your army revolver, do you?”

“I most certainly do.”

“Bring it. I could use your help on a case.”

The potato seemed to stand taller, if you could say that a potato could stand. “I’d be delighted.”

“Excellent.” Sherlock smiled.

He was starting to like this potato.


End file.
